Old Habits
by kingly queen
Summary: There are some things you can't forget. Some things you can't leave behind. In the midst of a bank robbery, the Joker discovers a familiar face, and the past rears its ugly head. The Joker and the girl who called him her friend. Joker/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Old Habits**  
_KINGLY QUEEN_

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters. They belong to Christopher Nolan and DC comics. I make no profit from this story

* * *

I swallowed thickly as I sat underneath the scrutiny of Commissioner Gordon's cool gaze, and felt a coil of dread unfurl in the pit of my stomach. I was really getting the full treatment here; the dimmed lights were suitably ominous, and the room was barren save for concrete walls, a cool metal table and what I guessed to be a two way mirror. The overall effect was intimidating – the fact that I couldn't see the Commissioner's eyes didn't help any. The light overhead reflecting off his glasses caused a blank white sheen that successfully hid his eyes from my gaze. I had to wonder if he was doing it on purpose.

_Probably._

I crossed my hands on the table in front of me and licked my lips, trying and failing to conceal my nervousness. "Uh," I offered hesitantly.

Suddenly he leaned forward, and I could see his eyes again. They were cool and calculating. On television he always seemed like such a kind man – more somebody's grandfather than a man in charge of a whole city's safety. But now, seeing his detached pragmatism I couldn't say I had anymore doubts about his capabilities. It made me wary. I watched him carefully as he opened a dossier and pulled out some pictures, setting them down on the table in front of me. "Ms. Ward, do you know who this man is?"

I looked at the photos and studied the face I saw. I looked at his limp green hair, his scars, the cut and color of his clothes. I almost flinched, but I could feel Gordon's eyes on my face, watching for each minute reaction. I kept my face blank and my voice toneless when I replied, "He's one of the men who robbed Gotham Royal yesterday." I looked back up at him. "Gotham news reports call him the Joker."

"_I can be cracked, I can be made; I can be told, I can be played. What am I?"_

Commissioner Gordon nodded gathering up his files, but I noticed that he failed to retrieve the pictures. He kept them spread around on the table in front of me and I frowned, looking away from them.

"He calls himself the Joker. He's left his calling card all over the city," the commissioner said derisively, holding up a joker card. "Call it his personal stamp of sorts."

I swallowed and nodded stiffly, unsure of what to say.

"_What goes all around the world but stays in one corner?"_

"I have your statement from yesterday, Ms. Ward, but could you please tell me again what happened yesterday?" he queried, setting his folder aside and propping his chin up on his joined fingers.

I frowned. Telling the story had been hard enough the first time, but I sighed, not wanting to make a fuss. "I went to Gotham Royal yesterday around maybe three o'clock. It was busy that day so I had to wait in line. I was waiting for maybe ten minutes when a white van came crashing through the entrance. Some men in clown masks came out and fired up into the air," I recounted, swallowing hard. "Everyone screamed and got to the ground." I shook my head. "After that I couldn't see anything, but I could hear them. They told one of the bank clerks to lead them to the safes." I paused, uncertainly and looked up at the commissioner.

_Can he hear the quaver in your voice?_

"Go on," he said, nodding encouragingly.

I closed my eyes and replayed the events in my head struggling to keep my hands from shaking. I was clearly going to lose that battle, I decided, and simply slid them off the table and folded them in my lap. "Some more shots were fired. I – I think someone was thrown out a window." I let out a small bark of a laugh. "How sick is that?"

"Very," the commissioner replied succinctly. "When did you see the Joker?"

_When?_

"I saw him when his men told us to get up and stand by the wall. He didn't have his mask on so I could see his face."

"Did he speak to you?"

"No."

_Lie._

"Communicate with you in any way?"

"No."

For a long moment the commissioner was silent as he looked at me, and there was nothing of that warm kindness I had grown to associate with him when I'd seen on Gotham news channels. His eyes appraised me coldly, watching for signs of weakness, clinically taking in signs of deceit and falsehood. I steeled myself to meet his eyes, and was rewarded when, eventually, he was the first to look away.

"Very well, Ms. Ward. Was this the last time you saw him?"

Inwardly I sighed in relief and shook my head. "No, his men were wiring explosives to the whole place, but he told them not to bother. I guess they must have been running out of time or something, but they got into the car and left." I stopped. "That was the last I saw of him."

"Hm," the commissioner hummed thoughtfully. "You're a very brave woman Ms. Ward."

I blinked at him. "I'm really not, sir."

He shook his head at me, a small smile on his lips. "Now, that's not true. Give yourself some credit. Your testimonial was a great deal of help to us. The other witnesses were blubbering messes – we couldn't make heads or tails of their statements at all." He paused, fixing me with a serious look. "But _you_, you're factual, coherent, and matter-of-fact. Almost cool." He considered me for another long moment. I tried to refrain from fidgeting in my seat but at the same time wondered if all cops had to take mandatory courses in effectively staring people down.

Suddenly he broke out into a sudden booming laugh. "You do this kind of thing often?"

"By 'thing', I'm assuming you mean getting tangled up in bank robberies?" I laughed weakly. "Only every other month or so, I wouldn't call myself experienced."

The commissioner smiled and held his hand out for me to shake. "Well, Ms. Ward, thank you for taking the time out of your day to come down here. Let's hope it's the first and only time you'll ever have to."

I laughed sharply and took his hand. "God, I hope so, sir."

* * *

Jim Gordon and Officer Ramirez watched the surveillance tapes showing that their witness had just left the Gotham Police Department.

"Well, sir?"

There was a quick pause before the commissioner replied, shaking his head with a sigh. "Have someone watch her." He turned his head slightly and noticed the officer fidgeting. "Go ahead and ask me why, Ramirez," he said with a knowing smile.

Jim watched in amusement as the officer paused hesitantly, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Well," he said slowly, "me and the rest of the fellas were wondering why you'd choose to target her, of all people. She seems harmless enough."

Jim Gordon barked out a laugh. "You're too soft hearted, Ramirez."

The other officer looked flustered but went on determinedly, showing no sign that he'd heard the commissioner. "We went over the surveillance tapes from the robbery yesterday and we've already identified and apprehended three of the Joker's accomplices but you haven't even spoken them yet." Ramirez looked at Jim Gordon and hastily added, "With all due respect, sir."

Jim Gordon shook his head ruefully. "You're a good police officer, Ramirez. You have quick instincts and you're smart." He folded his arms over his chest. "But you've been out of the academy for what, three or four years now? When you've been in the force for as long as I have, you'll find that going by the books only goes so far. Sometimes it pays to go by your gut."

The other officer looked confused. "Sir?"

Gordon beckoned him to the video surveillance room with two fingers. "Come on and take a look at this."

Yesterday, their whole division had sat in a darkened room, staring dead eyed at the array of screens that displayed recordings of the robbery from Gotham Royal's surveillance tapes. They'd been poring over the footage for hours, and discerned no more than what they already knew: the Joker was the mastermind behind this, and he was a _madman. _

For hours they watched and re-watched tapes of him strolling jauntily through the doors of Gotham Royal, decked out in purple and war paint, a manic grin on his face. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to _any_ of his actions – he defenestrated a bank teller, he bludgeoned an ATM, he shot one of his own accomplices in the knee and left him screaming on the floor.

"These tapes won't tell us much more than what we already know, Ramirez. The suspects that we've apprehended won't talk. The license plate on that van will be tracked down to an owner that's been dead for ten years."

The other officer sighed in frustration, raking a hand through his hair in an impatient motion. "So what are we missing here then, sir?"

"Maybe nothing. Maybe _something._" Jim replied ambiguously, rapping the monitor with the back of his hand. "But look at this. What do you see?"

The younger officer leaned closer to the monitor and after watching its proceedings he straightened, no more enlightened than he'd been a few minutes ago. "There's not much to see here, sir. The Joker's standing there, the hostages are in front of him, he's surveying the damage that he's done to the bank, decides he doesn't have time to detonate the bomb and then he leaves."

"Ah, but that's not quite it."

"What?"

"Look at his eyes," Jim replied, tapping the screen again. When the other man failed to understand, Jim Gordon sighed impatiently. "Look at him. He's not looking around at the bank at all. That is _not_ the expression of a man admiring his own handiwork, Ramirez." Jim Gordon stared shrewdly at the screen, following the Joker's every motion.

"His attention is focused on something very specific." He drew a straight line to a redheaded woman standing against the wall. "On _her_. Sophie Ward." Jim Gordon looked back at the officer and saw the unconvinced expression on the other man's face. "The Joker has no compassion. He doesn't see his victims as _people_, if he even notices them at all. From the minute he enters that bank, he's all business. But suddenly, just as he's about to leave, he stops in his tracks and looks at her like he's seen her for the first time." He tapped the monitor. "Don't you find it odd Ramirez?"

He went on. "Now look at her, look at _her_ face. She's looking straight back at him, and her expression tells me she's more surprised to see him than she is afraid." He waved a hand at all the other hostages crowded against each other. "Everyone else looks terrified out of their _minds_, but not her."

Jim Gordon leaned back, folding his arms over his chest, and looked determined. "The money's being loaded into the truck, the bombs are being planted, and these clowns are firing random shots into the air, but in the midst of all that, these two…" Jim Gordon tilted his head thoughtfully. "… They only see each other." He shook his head grimly, and began to pace the room, now seeming to speak more to himself than Ramirez, who was staring at him with his mouth agape.

"And in the end, you can see the bomb all set to blow after they escape. We would never have made it in time to dismantle it before it exploded and killed everyone in the bank. Everything's ready, and all he needs to do is get in the van and leave. What's he waiting for? Why the sudden change of heart?"

Ramirez recovered and said uncertainly, "Do you think she's in on it then?"

The commissioner looked over at him. "Not quite that. But she knows more than she's letting on." He sighed.

The younger officer shook his head. "I don't know sir. You said so yourself, she's a tough one. Maybe she just wasn't afraid…"

Jim Gordon looked at the man incredulously. "Ramirez, a psychotic clown drove straight into Gotham Royal yesterday and proceeded to wave around some machine guns. As far as we know, he has no history, no motive and no weaknesses. If he pointed a gun at you, wouldn't _you_ be afraid?"

The other officer mashed his lips together, but grunted out a begrudging "Yes, sir."

The commissioner nodded. "Frankly, so would I, and we're _cops._" He looked at the other man seriously. "So why wasn't she?"

* * *

I made my way home on wobbly legs, kicking off my heels as I entered. I leaned back on the door, feeling it close behind me and with shaking hands I locked it and latched the deadbolt. With a shuddery sigh, I sank to the ground, tucking my arms beneath my chin and curling into a ball.

"Oh God," I groaned to myself, burying my face in my hands. I felt so tired. So weary that I could feel it in my bones. If I could only drag myself to bed, the couch, or even the damned rug in the living room, I knew I'd probably sink blissfully into sleep and not wake up for days.

Did Commissioner Gordon notice that anything was amiss? I was so sure he could hear the tremor in my voice, the way I forcibly kept my face blank, how I couldn't look at those pictures for any longer than a few seconds. But at the same time, I asked myself why I was so nervous. It hadn't been as though I was lying.

It was something that I'd been telling myself over and over on the drive back home. _You weren't lying to the commissioner today. There's nothing to be nervous about. You didn't do anything wrong._

And it was true, because I didn't know the Joker at all. I had never even heard about him until he stepped out of that van yesterday, clothed in green and purple. I didn't recognize the white, black and red war paint on his face. I didn't know those scars or that hair. I'd never heard that grating, nasally voice in my life.

But.

And there it was. That word. That one little word that spoke volumes for how much doubt I was in.

Yesterday had felt so surreal, like I was moving underwater, even though all the images that came to my mind were bright and sharp. I could only remember things in a sequence of snapshots. Everything else was simply a dark, dim awareness. Things I noticed but didn't quite register. The whole time I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, my whole body desperately pumping blood and adrenalin, as though screaming for me to _live_, even as I numbly complied with all the Joker's orders. In my head, I felt like a deer in the headlights, frozen by shock and fear.

But there had been a single moment of clarity, one that shook me out of my stupor like a splash of cold water. It was such a strange, fateful thing. If I hadn't looked up then, it might not have happened at all. I might have been somewhere else, happier without the heavy weight of this knowledge sitting like lead on my chest.

We had been shoved to the side of the bank, presumably so that the Joker's men could freely load the money into their van. We all crouched against the wall, too afraid to move for fear of being singled out and being made an example of, like the bank teller was. I could still hear him screaming as he was thrown out a window, right after the Joker had claimed he could make a man completely disappear.

I was kneeling on my hands and knees, pieces of broken glass digging into my palms. My head spun, and my stomach turned queasy circles; I felt so sick. If I didn't think I'd be shot for it, I probably would have thrown up right then and there, but as it was I forced myself to breathe deeply through my nose. I could smell the kerosene, then. And the chemicals.

_Oh God_, I thought. _They're going to blow us sky high._

"Boss," I heard one of the men say. "We're nearly done loading the money, and the bombs are all ready to go."

"Al_righty_, then!" said the Joker excitedly. I could hear him rubbing his hands together, though I didn't dare look up. "Let's get this show on the road, Johnny boy; I wanna see me some fireworks," he cackled, pacing back and forth, his shoes crunching on broken glass with each step.

My arms began to tremble when I saw his feet enter my line of vision. I didn't move a muscle. I didn't breathe. I was so still that I nearly jumped out of my skin when he let out a sudden whoop. "It is _hot _under here," he said, enunciating each word in that odd manner of speech of his. "Robbing banks works up _quite_ a swea_t_."

There was a quick shuffle before a clown mask plopped to the ground in front of his feet. He shook head like a wet dog while blowing air out between his lips. "Ah," he breathed throatily, his voice less muffled. "_That's _better."

For a moment, I was so _curious. _I wanted to look up. I wanted to see the face of my murderer. What was I afraid of? That he would notice me staring and take a knife to me? What difference did it make if I was going to be blown to bits anyway? Rational thought bid me not to look up, that it was dangerous, that I was better off not knowing, but I didn't listen. The urge to look was too much stronger.

When I glanced up cautiously, I was confused. For a moment I thought he hadn't taken his clown mask off at all, before I realized that it was paint on his face. Bare patches of skin showed beneath the garish, white, red and blank greasepaint that made his face a nightmarish mess. I could see the scars, like twisted rope lining the corners of his mouth, stretching up to mar his cheeks. The hastily slapped on red paint slathered on his scars made them look _fresh_, like they were still bleeding. The Joker was horrifying. He looked like a monster.

So why couldn't I look away? Because when I looked at him, my chest ached. Because I—

Just then, the Joker spared a brief, disinterested look at us. His eyes darted at each face, and when he got to me, our eyes met briefly before they swept right past me, and in that moment I wasn't sure whether to sigh in relief or cry out. I watched numbly as he made to move past me – but suddenly his eyes swung quickly back to my face, too quickly to be explained as casual interest. His eyes were narrowed and shrewd. I stared breathlessly up at him, and for a moment I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do anything.

Because I _knew_ this man. This man who was walking around with a gun, robbing banks and killing people. The man who would be my murderer. Only I hadn't known him as the Joker. In what felt like a lifetime ago, he hadn't worn purple and green, painted his face or had those scars. Everything about him was so different. Only one thing stayed the same – those _eyes._ Cold, brown eyes that were fixed on me. Narrowed and focused and faintly puzzled.

The Joker had frozen altogether, his shoulders hunched and his head slightly tilted. His eyes were narrowed, and his gaze was inscrutable. His look could have meant he was either trying to figure me out, or he could have simply been wondering what I looked like with my guts all over the floor. I watched, frozen, as his eyes traced my face, their heavy weight almost like a physical touch. Like a finger sweeping over my mouth, counting the freckles dusting my cheeks, up the slope of my upturned nose before locking onto my eyes – everything that confirmed what he already knew.

_You know me. I know you._

Recognition seemed to settle over him like a blanket – his shoulders suddenly went tense, his mouth downturned in displeasure while his hands became fists at his side. At the thunderous look on his face, I quailed, but I couldn't look away.

He took a step forward his mouth opening, as though about to say something when one of his clowns jogged up, panting. "Boss," he croaked. "We're done. We got all the money, and we rigged the bombs to go off in five minutes, like you told us to. We gotta get outta here."

My stomach lurched at the thought. The Joker snapped his gaze away from me and looked over at the barrels of kerosene stacked together, ready to explode and kill us all. He turned his head slowly to look at me again, his tongue darting out to lick the corner of his mouth. For a long, terrible moment his eyes were cold and appraising, flicking between me and the bombs.

That's when I knew it. _Oh God, I'm going to die. I'm going to die._

I closed my eyes, clenching them shut as I tried not to imagine the explosion, the terrible heat, the screams, the fact that _he_ would be the one to kill me. I was in the middle of a full blown panic attack when I heard him suddenly growl.

"Forget it." His voice cracked like a whip, low and annoyed.

My eyes snapped open to fix on him, only to find that he had already turned away from me, though I couldn't tear my gaze away from him.

"B-Boss?" said the clown uncertainly. "You're tellin' me you want us to—"

"_Yes_, muttface," replied the Joker emphatically, bending down to loom over the other man threateningly. "I'm telling you to go shut it off, before I decide to change my mind and blow this place up with you tied to a barrel."

The man skittered off, and I breathed a sigh of relief, my eyes still glued to the Joker's form. He stood there stiff and unmoving, as if he could feel me staring holes into his back. His head was half turned toward me, and I wondered what he was thinking. My throat worked as I opened my mouth, probably looking like a fish, and wondering what I should _say_ to him. _So, I see you've been busy these past ten years_ or _Not sure I'm a fan of your new look. Or attitude. Or anything. _Or maybe, _Thank you for not killing me in a horrible explosion _or even worse, _Where did you go? Why did you leave? _

I hadn't quite figured out what I'd wanted to say when I heard him speak. "Over three _hundred_ banks in Gotham," he said slowly, his tongue darting out to wet his scars, "and _today_ you just _had_ to choose _this _one." He was still facing away from me and there was a dull beat of silence. "You haven't changed a single bi_t,"_ he muttered flatly. It didn't sound like a compliment.

For a moment, he sounded so _familiar_ that I forgot to be afraid and was indignant instead. It wasn't like _he_ was in any position to judge how _I _turned out. I opened my mouth to retort when I was abruptly cut off by the vicious look he pinned me with over his shoulder. The menace in his eyes stopped me in my tracks. His eyes had gone dark, almost obsidian and were full of loathing, and disgust. He looked so vicious, and hateful, and I wondered if he was having second thoughts about not blowing up the whole bank and me in it.

My teeth clicked together as my mouth closed.

The Joker shook his head, scoffing, and without another word strolled toward the van and got in, slamming the doors shut without ceremony or fanfare. The tires squealed as they raced off, and it wasn't until I couldn't see them anymore that I let out a shuddery breath and slumped to the floor. I hadn't moved until the police had arrived – one kind officer had given me his coat and something hot to drink before he'd taken my statement.

That had been yesterday, and since then I hadn't been able to get the Joker out of my head. I tried to reconcile his face with the face of the boy I had used to know – one that had disappeared ten years ago. There were alarming differences – so many that they could have been two different people altogether.

But that didn't explain why the Joker had looked at me with Jack Napier's eyes.

* * *

Author's Note: This will be an origin story. Yes, I'm new to the Batman fandom, and yes it's Joker/OC which has its own stigmas, but you can bet your ass I'll do my utmost to make sure it's not a Mary Sue self fulfillment fic.

The next chapter will be approximately... fifteen years before the events of this chapter? Well, anyway, the Joker and Sophie Ward will both be children; time is relative, it doesn't matter how old they are. Anyone whose read my Labyrinth stuff knows I like turning back the clock, and how certain things in childhood still leave their marks today. Mostly, I wanted to see what would happen if the Joker had to encounter and deal with someone he couldn't simply ignore or blow away into smithereens.

A warning: this story will be dark. It starts off cute enough, I guess, with them as children (I listened to _really_ poppy, upbeat music while writing them), but it'll only go downhill from there. But we'll get to that when we have to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Old Habits**  
_KINGLY QUEEN_

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters. They belong to Christopher Nolan and DC comics. I make no profit from this story

* * *

He was the new boy at school.

All the other students huddled together in their own groups, laughing and chatting among themselves so that it wasn't really that hard to spot the odd one out, if anybody had bothered to look.

He had tattered shoes. Maybe it was from the way he kept scuffing them against the ground, tearing up the soles. But that didn't account for the frayed hems of his too short jeans, or the holes in his yellow, washed out shirt that seemed two sizes too big. The boy himself seemed blank and cold, his face empty of expression. Brown eyes that peered out from behind the curtain of his tangled hair were like voids.

The other students seemed to somehow understand that there was something different about him. On the first day, they were curious and wary. No one said a word to him, but instead bowed their heads together to whisper furiously if he happened to walk past. On the second day, their suspicion had given way to hostility. Glares were sent his way, and the word _freak_, muttered just loud enough to be audible if he was in hearing distance.

But I didn't understand. His clothes were dirty, and maybe he was quiet, but hadn't _done _anything wrong. He hadn't even _said_ anything yet.

I watched as he took his seat, indifferent to the two boys who sat a row in front of him who threw him ugly looks over their shoulders before pointedly turning away. The whole class seemed to follow suit. I turned my head away and looked indignantly toward my friend Andrea. "Why is everyone being so _mean_ to him?" I asked hotly.

She rolled her eyes at me. "Does it look like he belongs? Look at him, Sophie, he's a freak."

I turned my head, and saw him staring blankly at the board, a blank piece of paper in front of him. He was flicking a small stub of a pencil back and forth on his desk. To me, he only looked like a boy. I couldn't see the monster everyone else had apparently seen.

"He doesn't look like he _doesn't_ belong," I reasoned.

She shot me a disgusted look. "Do me a favor and just stay away from him, Sophie. Just leave it, okay?"

But I couldn't.

It rankled on my nerves to think that everyone was treating him differently because he was quiet, or because his clothes weren't new like ours were. Maybe I could understand if he'd spoken even a word – at least then there would be something to judge about him other than his _appearance. _But instead, he sat quietly, heedless and untouchable as the rest of the class formed a wide berth around him. I felt bad for him, because he never fought back either. It never once occurred to me that this was because he didn't care one way or another.

But then again, I was also the kid who would drag home flea bitten dogs home, or feed the feral kittens living in the dumpster behind the school, or take pity on dying and wilted houseplants. I was a bleeding heart, and a sucker for lost causes.

Looking back, I realized that my fate had probably been sealed the first time I met him.

The next day, class had just started and students were just beginning to trickle in through the door. I chewed my lip before sighing, quickly reaching a decision. I walked over to my teacher. "Ms. Cole, I can't see the board well from the back of the classroom. Could I move up?"

"Of course, sweetie. You should have said so sooner. There are a few open seats up here, so sit where you feel comfortable." She turned away and strolled back to her desk, presumably to get out her seating plan. Meanwhile, I gathered my stuff, ignoring Andrea's probing look as I wove between the chairs, and past Ashley, who was waving me eagerly over to sit next to her. Without hesitating, I casually dragged the chair back from the desk and plopped myself down next to the boy. I kept my chin up and stared straight ahead, ignoring the fact that the rest of the class erupted into furious whispers behind me.

For his part, he hadn't acknowledged me when I sat down next to him. The only indication that made me think he'd noticed me at all was the hand that had been idly playing with his pencil. He'd flicked it up, and as it rolled back down the desk, his index finger suddenly unfolded and abruptly halted its progress. I watched from the corner of my eye as he resumed rolling the pencil between his fingertips, but this time slower. Somehow, even though his face hadn't changed, the action managed to appear almost thoughtful.

* * *

At recess I found him on the seesaws, sitting with both his legs over one side. It was a little bit sad, because he alone at one end and stared blankly at nothing. His knees were drawn up to his chest because his end of the seesaw was tipped so closely to the ground. I didn't think much of it when I lifted myself up onto the other side of the seesaw, and as I clambered on, the glossy red plank of wood went balanced, lifting him up so that he was no longer hunched over. I looked sideways at him and saw him go rigid, his hands going white as he gripped the side of the seesaw, but other than that he didn't say anything, but he hadn't made any move to leave either.

"My name is Sophie," I said conversationally, digging my shoe into the sand. "I sat next to you in class today." I paused briefly, waiting for him to say something. When he didn't, I continued. "I know your name is Jack 'cause the teacher said so," I added. "It's a nice name. I have an uncle named Jack. We spent the summer at his cottage." I was aware that I was babbling about myself, and that he hadn't replied yet, so I switched tacks.

"So where'd you come from?" I looked at him expectantly, but backtracked hastily when I saw the barest frown furrow his brows. "I mean, it must be hard being a new student and all. I bet your friends miss you." Still nothing.

I tried to asking him other things. Where he lived, if he had any brothers or sisters, what his parents did, but he never said a word. I switched back to talking about other things. My new cat, my baby brother and the classwork, but eventually I ended up lapsing into morose silence. It seemed that despite my best efforts, he wasn't going to say anything to me today. Or maybe ever. The possibility depressed me, because if there was anything I was good at, it was making friends although he didn't seem to have the same idea in mind.

Heaving a sigh, I gave up for the day. There were only so many times you could be ignored and keep on chattering away. Even I had my limits. Instead, I called it quits and took out a pencil and a small book from my bag and opened it to the first page.

It was a book of puzzles and mazes and other things. My father brought it home after one of his business trips and I had been delighted with it. I'd finished most of the mazes and the crossword puzzles over the summer, but had grown increasingly frustrated with the riddles, which was the only part left in the book that wasn't done, but I was determined to do all of the first book before I moved onto the second one.

I looked down at the words swimming around on the page and regretted my decision to be so stubborn. They were such a _pain_, and the answers tended to always be such simple, in-your-face things which frustrated me to no end. "Okay Sophie," I said aloud to myself. "Just think it through. What goes all around the world but stays in one corner?" I blinked and read it again. _That doesn't even make sense!_ I thought furiously, glaring. _How can something go around the world but stay in one cor—_

"Stamp."

My head shot up, looking around for the source of the voice. It dawned on me, more slowly than perhaps it should have, that Jack had said it. I looked at him, blinking owlishly and saw his dark eyes staring back.

"What?" I asked dumbly.

He blinked once, and repeated slowly, "What goes all around the world but stays in one corner. A stamp."

"Oh." I said numbly, but wrote down the answer anyways. Peeping at him again, I saw that he'd once again turned away, though I wondered if he might still be listening.

I looked between Jack and the next riddle before reading it out loud. "At night they come without being fetched, and by day they are lost without being stolen. What are they?" I wondered if he'd get it this time. Maybe he'd already heard the first one somewhere, or maybe it was a fluke. I flipped to the back of the book, peeking at the answers.

"Stars," he said without looking at me this time.

But I was looking at him, stunned into silence. "You're really good at these. How'd you get so good?" I asked, not really expecting him to react but, to my surprise, he shrugged. It was a small thing, but my cheeks flushed with pleasure. With an eager smile, I leaned forward and asked him, "D'you want to look at these with me?"

There was a moment of silence, in which I half expected him to merely continue sitting there, ignoring me, but he'd surprised me again and nodded once, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

I beamed at him and he looked away again. "Okay! C'mon Jack, the benches are empty. It'll be easier for us both to see the book over there." I hopped off and led the way. He followed behind me, toting his tattered backpack behind him. He kept a wide gap of distance between us, but I didn't mind.

We both sat on the bench and I read the riddles out loud again. I made a game of trying to find the answers before him, but so far I had little success. It was hard to be sour about losing though, because even though I hadn't made any progress with solving those riddles, I _had_made progress with Jack.

* * *

"What's black, white and red all over?"

"A newspaper." He paused, his mouth curling in annoyance. "You read that one already. Twice."

I sighed gustily and flapped the book at him in irritation. "That's because I don't know where we're at anymore," I sulked, torn, as usual, between admiration and annoyance. At this point, I didn't even bother to try figuring out the answers for myself. I simply read them out loud and waited for him to answer, which he always did. Though on some days I was irked at being so severely outclassed (like today), most of the time it was nice to sit on the see saw with him like this. And part of me was afraid that if I stopped bringing the riddles, he'd stop talking to me. So everyday we'd sit on the see saw, unraveling a tangled knot of words, peeling back skin to find hidden answers.

"Anyway, I think we finished the book. I'll get the second one this weekend, I think."

I closed the book up and stowed it carefully away in my backpack before bringing out a brown paper sack. I tore my sandwich in half and handed it to him, just like I'd been doing for the past two weeks since discovering that he never brought any lunch to school, an idea that appalled me. At this rate though, I was pretty sure that I'd have to start bringing two sandwiches. I eyed him discreetly as he shoved the lot of it into his mouth.

It was then that I heard the crunch of shoes on gravel behind me, and I looked back at a group of boys from our class who had formed a loose half circle around us. I narrowed my eyes. It was Chris Ellis and his friends. There weren't very many people I could claim to hate, but Christopher was one of the few. He'd never done anything to _me_ but the things he said to Jack made me seethe. Some common sense in the boy kept him from doing much more than insulting Jack, though, but still, I hated it. And I _definitely_ wasn't going to just sit there while they did it.

I slipped off my end of the see saw and stood to face them. Jack hadn't done much more than glance over his shoulder at them before turning away dismissively. I thought I heard him scoff.

"What do you guys want?" I sneered, crossing my arms over my chest.

Chris stepped forwards, his mouth twisting into an ugly jeer. "Get out of here, this doesn't have anything to do with you, Sophie. We're just gonna teach the freak some manners, that's all."

My mouth fell open, before snapping closed. I grit my teeth at him. "I'll stop you," I replied, dead serious, my hands balling into little fists.

He and his friends laughed. "Yeah? Everyone knows you're a baby, Sophie, what are you going to do?"

I pressed my lips together. It _was_ kind of true that I was a baby. At least in the sense that I never retaliated whenever someone did something to me. The conflict just never seemed worth the slight. But when it came to others bullying my friends… that was a whole other story. I squared my shoulders and glared him down.

"Who are _you_ calling a baby? Everyone knows you cried like one when a dog chased you up a tree in fourth grade," I snapped, watching with satisfaction as he blanched and took a step back.

"It was a big dog!" he retorted, but his voice was shrilly and cracked half way through.

I rolled my eyes. "Please, I've seen that dog. It's a Chihuahua, and if you couldn't handle _that _then you can't handle _me_." I glared at him before making a dismissive gesture. "Now go away before I tell your friends some more interesting stories."

I watched him as he flushed red and blustered before turning on his heel, marching away furiously, his buddies in tow. I scowled at the sight of their fading backs. "God, they're such bullies." I turned away, only to find myself the recipient of Jack's dark gaze. I looked back at him and tried to read what I saw there, but his expression was inscrutable. It made me wonder, though, just how easily _he_ could read _my_ face, and what he found there.

He was idly tonguing the corner of his lips, his eyes roving across my face. After a long moment, he offered only a stretched out "Hm." It made me blink in surprise.

"Uhm," I said uncertainly, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny.

He rolled his eyes, suddenly breaking the moment. "Are you going to finish those cookies?" he demanded.

Before recess finished, we finished the cookies and the chocolate milk, and as the rest of the afternoon followed, I felt rather than saw the weight of his dark eyes on me, speculative and appraising.

* * *

But as time wore on, I became aware that Jack was different with me than when he was with other people. For one thing, he was a lot more… sinister.

It began as a string of suspicious, but unrelated events. A few scraped knees and some bruises, but no one worse for wear. But then more concerning things began happening. The other week David Abram had been climbing the ropes during gym class, but half way through the rope had snapped and sent him flailing to the ground. He'd broken a wrist and hadn't come back to school since then. The teachers had said that the ropes were merely old, which was why they broke but as I passed the teacher's lounge I'd overheard one of them saying that the cut was too clean, as though someone had cut most of the way through it, and simply waited for weight and gravity to do the rest. It couldn't have been a student though, they reasoned. The cut was too strategically placed. High enough so that no one would notice, but not so much that it wouldn't snap. The work was much too cunning for a student to have managed.

The day before the accident though, David Abram had upended my things, scattering my notes around on the floor. When I'd gotten to my knees to try and gather them up, red faced with shame, he'd stepped all over them carelessly, leaving his muddy foot prints all over my work. He and his friends laughed, pulling on one of my pigtails as they jeered. "That's what you get for being the freak's girlfriend," they chortled.

My friends – my _other_ friends – shuffled uncomfortably. They didn't like me talking to Jack and it was one of those things we avoided talking about because if we brought it up we'd always end up arguing about it. Even though in the end they were willing to overlook it and forgive me, things had changed. Where once before they would have rushed in to defend me, now they only guiltily turned their heads away, unhappy about me being bullied but unwilling to do anything about it.

I could feel Jack's eyes on me, but I refused to look up. I was angry and humiliated enough, and the last thing I wanted was for him to see me do something embarrassing, like _cry_. I'd never been able to deal well with my anger – I usually burst into furious tears when I was really upset. Sucking in a deep breath, I gathered up my notes and walked stiffly back to my seat, still unwilling to meet the heavy weight of his gaze.

When school ended, I carelessly shoved my things in my bag, but before I could beat a hasty retreat, Jack moved in front of me, blocking my way. "Sophie." It was just one word. Just my name.

By now I knew him well enough to understand it for what it was. A command. Obediently, I looked up, meeting his eyes which were so dark they were almost black. His down turned mouth told me he definitely wasn't pleased. I shook my head at him. "Look, I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Bye Jack." And I hurriedly slipped past him to run home.

The look in his eyes though, made me wonder if he had anything to do with David Abram's accident. But he couldn't have. The teachers said a student couldn't have done it. But I _wondered_…

And then a week or two later, Suzie Garner had dumped a bowl full of paint over my head, staining my hair and ruining my new dress. I slipped off into the bathroom to try and wash out the stains but nothing could be done for the giant red mess that was left in my hair. My mom would be so angry.

The next day my dad had dropped me at school early, so instead of waiting by the doors, I headed to the park, only to find Jack standing there, looking speculatively up at the monkey bars.

"Jack!" I called out. Immediately, he turned his head to look at me. "What are you doing here? You don't usually come this early."

He shrugged slightly as I came over to stand next to him. I looked at the monkey bars and then back to him. "So… What are we looking at over here?"

He glanced at me, amused. "_We_ aren't looking at anything. Go inside Sophie."

I frowned at him. When he told me to do something, I usually listened, but that didn't mean he was the boss of me. "No. Why aren't you coming?" I asked in reply.

He frowned back at me, obviously irritated as he licked his lips. "Just go inside, I'll be there in a minute."

"Fine," I snapped, rolling my eyes, and went into the school. When Jack arrived, there was something off about him. He smelled faintly of something harsh and artificial, like metal and chemicals. I wanted to ask, but couldn't quite muster up the courage.

Lunch rolled around and I'd put his strangeness aside. Getting answers from him was harder than pulling teeth from a chicken and was, at worst, scary; I was always afraid he'd get up with my questions. I let it go. We settled down on the swings, and I pulled out my lunch and the new puzzle book I'd bought over the weekend, but when I looked over at Jack, his expression was intense, but focused elsewhere. He seemed to be waiting for something. "Jack? Wha—"

I was cut off by a blood curdling scream which set my teeth on edge. In the playground, you heard a lot of screams. Girls cried out when boys pulled their pigtails, or when they found a snail in the sand. But this one was different. It was raw, and shrilly with real fear.

I slid off the seesaw and made toward the sound without another second's thought. The cries continued and I followed them to the playground, where the whole class had coalesced beneath the monkey bars. I watched in alarm as Suzie Garner hung from the metal rings, squirming desperately and still screaming blue murder. "Help!" She cried. "Please, somebody help, my hands are stuck to the bars," she sobbed, tears and snot slicking her ruddy red cheeks.

I didn't think as I scrambled up the jungle gym and to where she dangled helplessly. She thrashed around like a desperate animal caught in a trap, making horrible keening sounds that I could feel in my bones. "Hold on," I said frantically. "Someone's getting the teacher, you'll be okay," I reassured her, though my voice was shaking. I reached out for her hands and tried to pry them off the metal only to find that, as she said, they were stuck fast. There was some hard, clear substance that seemed to solidify around her fingers, and the familiar chemical smell that emanated from it made my blood run cold.

When a teacher finally arrived, I was almost as pale and afraid as she was. Her voice had grown hoarse and now she merely whimpered. Another teacher stepped beneath her and hoisted her up on his shoulders so that there was no longer a strain on her arms.

The crowd of other students clamored together talking loudly amongst themselves or otherwise soothing the distraught girl. The other teachers spoke quietly in their own council, looking wary and shifty eyed. The sound of fifty human voices talking at once became a smooth blanket of sound that calmed me, lulled me away from the horrible sounds of Suzie screaming.

But then, another sound could be heard over the din. It was quiet enough, but despite this it raised goose bumps on my arms. Maybe because the noise was so impossibly out of place in the midst of pale, frightened faces. Maybe because the sound went just one shade past sane. Whatever the reason, it made me more afraid than Suzie's screams had.

It was the sound of laughter.

One by one, we all fell silent and turned towards the source of the gleeful chortles. My stomach churned as I saw Jack standing there, just laughing idly at first. But then his laughter grew, and changed and seemed to spread outwards like bushfire until they were full blown cackles. He braced a hand on one knee, hunching over slightly as he hooted, pointing to where Suzie Garner hung, still attached to the monkey bars. I watched in horror as he laughed, and laughed and laughed until tears came to his eyes.

We all stood, frozen in shock and horrified. Finally, the teachers snapped out of their stupor and took action. I could still hear him chuckling madly even when the teachers swooped down to drag him back into the school, the sound of his maliciousness echoing around in my ears.


End file.
